IV
Joe reported at Babbitt's cabin at nine the next morning.
Babbitt greeted him as a fellow caveman:
"Well, Joe, how d' you feel about hitting the trail, and
getting away from these darn soft summerites and these women
and all?''
"All right, Mr. Babbitt.''
"What do you say we go over to Box Car Pond—they tell
me the shack there isn't being used—and camp out?''
"Well, all right, Mr. Babbitt, but it's nearer to Skowtuit
Pond, and you can get just about as good fishing there.''
"No, I want to get into the real wilds.''
"Well, all right.''
"We'll put the old packs on our backs and get into the
woods and really hike.''
"I think maybe it would be easier to go by water, through
Lake Chogue. We can go all the way by motor boat—flat-bottom
boat with an Evinrude.''
"No, sir! Bust up the quiet with a chugging motor? Not
on your life! You just throw a pair of socks in the old pack,
and tell 'em what you want for eats. I'll be ready soon 's
you are.''
"Most of the sports go by boat, Mr. Babbitt. It's a long
walk.
"Look here, Joe: are you objecting to walking?''
"Oh, no, I guess I can do it. But I haven't tramped that
far for sixteen years. Most of the sports go by boat. But
I can do it if you say so—I guess.'' Joe walked away in
sadness.
Babbitt had recovered from his touchy wrath before Joe
returned. He pictured him as warming up and telling the most
entertaining stories. But Joe had not yet warmed up when
they took the trail. He persistently kept behind Babbitt, and
however much his shoulders ached from the pack, however
sorely he panted, Babbitt could hear his guide panting equally.
But the trail was satisfying: a path brown with pine-needles
and rough with roots, among the balsams, the ferns, the sudden
groves of white birch. He became credulous again, and
rejoiced in sweating. When he stopped to rest he chuckled,
"Guess we're hitting it up pretty good for a couple o' old
birds, eh?''
"Uh-huh,'' admitted Joe.
"This is a mighty pretty place. Look, you can see the lake
down through the trees. I tell you, Joe, you don't appreciate
how lucky you are to live in woods like this, instead of a city
with trolleys grinding and typewriters clacking and people
bothering the life out of you all the time! I wish I knew the
woods like you do. Say, what's the name of that little red
flower?''
Rubbing his back, Joe regarded the flower resentfully
"Well, some folks call it one thing and some calls it another
I always just call it Pink Flower.''
Babbitt blessedly ceased thinking as tramping turned into
blind plodding. He was submerged in weariness. His plump
legs seemed to go on by themselves, without guidance, and
he mechanically wiped away the sweat which stung his eyes.
He was too tired to be consciously glad as, after a sun-scourged
mile of corduroy tote-road through a swamp where
flies hovered over a hot waste of brush, they reached the cool
shore of Box Car Pond. When he lifted the pack from his
back he staggered from the change in balance, and for a moment
could not stand erect. He lay beneath an ample-bosomed
maple tree near the guest-shack, and joyously felt sleep running
through his veins.
He awoke toward dusk, to find Joe efficiently cooking bacon
and eggs and flapjacks for supper, and his admiration of the
woodsman returned. He sat on a stump and felt virile.
"Joe, what would you do if you had a lot of money? Would
you stick to guiding, or would you take a claim 'way back in
the woods and be independent of people?''
For the first time Joe brightened. He chewed his cud a
second, and bubbled, "I've often thought of that! If I had
the money, I'd go down to Tinker's Falls and open a swell
shoe store.''
After supper Joe proposed a game of stud-poker but Babbitt
refused with brevity, and Joe contentedly went to bed at
eight. Babbitt sat on the stump, facing the dark pond, slapping
mosquitos. Save the snoring guide, there was no other
human being within ten miles. He was lonelier than he had
ever been in his life. Then he was in Zenith.
He was worrying as to whether Miss McGoun wasn't paying
too much for carbon paper. He was at once resenting and
missing the persistent teasing at the Roughnecks' Table. He
was wondering what Zilla Riesling was doing now. He was
wondering whether, after the summer's maturity of being a
garageman, Ted would "get busy'' in the university. He was
thinking of his wife. "If she would only—if she wouldn't
be so darn satisfied with just settling down— No! I won't!
I won't go back! I'll be fifty in three years. Sixty in thirteen
years. I'm going to have some fun before it's too late. I
don't care! I will!''
He thought of Ida Putiak, of Louetta Swanson, of that nice
widow—what was her name?—Tanis Judique?—the one for
whom he'd found the flat. He was enmeshed in imaginary
conversations. Then:
"Gee, I can't seem to get away from thinking about folks!''
Thus it came to him merely to run away was folly, because
he could never run away from himself.
That moment he started for Zenith. In his journey there
was no appearance of flight, but he was fleeing, and four days
afterward he was on the Zenith train. He knew that he was
slinking back not because it was what he longed to do but
because it was all he could do. He scanned again his discovery
that he could never run away from Zenith and family
and office, because in his own brain he bore the office and the
family and every street and disquiet and illusion of Zenith.
"But I'm going to—oh, I'm going to start something!'' he
vowed, and he tried to make it valiant.
